


A Garden Planted

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parent Death, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan receives two pieces of bad news at once. He copes with this in the same way many men his age do: with ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Garden Planted

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mention of parent death; non-graphic description of getting a tattoo.
> 
> Thanks to my tumblr peeps for tattoo suggestions! A blue ribbon each goes to queenaramis and Sigmund, who both contributed ideas that made it to the final cut.

D’Artagnan’s phone rang as he was cutting vegetables for a stew. The apartment was quiet, all of his roommates out or sleeping. Athos was on a case, something about a missing veterinarian, and d’Artagnan was taking advantage of the time to make tomorrow’s lunch.

He scooped up the phone and saw his oldest sister’s face on his screen. He’d snapped the picture of her mid-lecture, with her trademark d’Artagnan eyebrows slanted in a fierce glower and her mouth half-open. He shuddered with foreboding and answered.

“Hi, Lisabeth.”

“We’re having a family meeting,” Lisabeth said straightaway. “The girls are here too.”

A loud chorus of hellos issued from d’Artagnan’s phone. He winced and set it on speaker.

“Hi, Charlie!” said Chiara, the second-oldest. “There’s another girl who wants to say hi too!”

There was a rustle, and then a toddler’s voice saying, “Hi, Uncle Chawlie!”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Hi, Niece Lowwaine.”

Lorraine shrieked with laughter. “That’s not my name!”

“It’s not?” D’Artagnan resumed slicing carrots. “What is it, then?”

“It’s _Lowwaine_.”

“That’s what I said,” said d’Artagnan. “Niece Lowwaine.”

“Nooo!”

“Okay, time for bed,” said Chiara. “You’ve said hi to Uncle Charlie; now up you go, miss.”

There was another chorus of voices from the d’Artagnan sisters, this time saying goodbye to Lorraine.

“Family meeting,” Lisabeth said again. “Let’s get to business.”

“Reminder, Lisabeth,” said Marion, the youngest sister. She was four years older than d’Artagnan. “This isn’t a court case. You can take it easy.”

Someone snorted. D’Artagnan couldn’t tell who it was until she spoke and he recognized Gwendoline. She had picked up an American twang while doing stunts for a movie in New York.

“Yeah, we should all take a deep breath and think of happy things, like Marion,” Gwendoline said. She made an “ohm” sound. “‘Let the spirits move through you… buy my mystic crystals… half off potpourri…’”

Marion ran a new-age health shop in Lupiac. Gwendoline had never understood Marion’s fascination of “all that hokey fake magic stuff.” When Marion had been reading d’Artagnan’s palms as kids, Gwendoline had been showing off her latest gymnastics moves and persuading d’Artagnan to explore the woods with her.

“Very funny,” said Marion. “By the way, did you get the package I sent you?”

“The necklace with the weird, furry charm on it? Yeah, I got it.”

“Remember to wear that when you’re doing stunts. Especially that big one coming up, with the double-harness and the airplane.”

Gwendoline paused. “How’d you-- no. Internet rumors.”

“If you want to think that,” Marion said mysteriously.

“Hey,” said Chiara, “I only have a few minutes before I need to go read ‘Eloise Takes a Bawth’ for the fortieth time this week, so if we could get on with this family meeting…"

Lisabeth cleared her throat. “Thank you, Chiara,” she said. “I’ve called you all together today--”

“Pun intended,” said Gwendoline.

“Shut up, Gwen -- I’ve called you all because LaBarge is up for parole this month.”

D’Artagnan nearly sliced his thumb off.

The last time he had seen the man who’d killed Alexandre d’Artagnan had been almost a year ago. LaBarge had been in a prisoner’s jumpsuit, looking strangely small in the courtroom as he had taken a plea bargain and accepted a five-to-seven-year stretch in jail.

He put the knife down and turned off the stove. His hands, wet from washing the vegetables, felt slick as if with blood. He couldn’t think past the feeling of Papa’s blood on his hands, Papa’s last rasping breaths loud in his ears.

“I thought you should all know,” said Lisabeth, more quietly.

“Well, shit,” said Chiara, with feeling. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to contest it, of course,” said Lisabeth.

“But he’s barely been in jail a year,” said d’Artagnan. His voice seemed to come from far away. “He shouldn’t be up for parole yet.”

“His lawyers made an argument for LaBarge being an unintentional accessory to his company, with no _mens rea_ \--”

“Charlie?” said Chiara sharply. “Charles, sit down.”

D’Artagnan collapsed onto one of the rickety stools that surrounded the kitchen’s tiny, uneven table. He realized that he hadn’t been breathing, and gasped in a lungful of air. He choked and spluttered. The thought, “ _This is what Papa sounded like when he died_ ” drifted through his mind.

He came back to his sisters calling his name urgently.

“Charlie!”

“Charles, are you okay? _Schifozz_.”

“You shouldn’t have dumped that on him, Lisabeth--”

“ _Basta_!” At the sound of Aurelia’s voice, even Gwendoline was struck silent.

D’Artagnan concentrated on his breathing. In, and out. In, and out. Don’t think about Papa’s weight in his arms or the blurred, hulking figure running away into the dark. In, and out.

“Charles is okay,” said Aurelia. “Aren’t you, Charles?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was only…”

“I know,” Aurelia soothed.

Aurelia was the middle sister. She was the quietest of all the siblings, but she had an authority that not even Lisabeth could match.

Aurelia was scarily competent. She could calm babies with a single pat, shoot a bullet through a bullseye at 400 yards, and she somehow always knew what d’Artagnan was up to. She had kept Papa’s books for years and now she worked as an accountant, though there was a running joke in the family that she was secretly a government spy who could kill with one flick of her red pen. At a young age, d’Artagnan had thought that Aurelia really was a secret agent. At times, he still wondered if it wasn’t true.

“It was a shock,” she said now. “But Lisabeth is going to go to the parole hearing to contest it, and we’re all going to talk about what happens after, okay?”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan said obediently. There were similar murmurs from his sisters.

“This is just what we need,” said Gwendoline abruptly. “First the farm, and now this fucking _zoccollele_.”

Marion made a hissing noise.

“Wait, what?” said d’Artagnan. His sisters were guiltily silent. “What was that about the farm?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Marion.

“Fuck that,” he said fiercely. He leaped up from the stool and gripped the counter, glaring at the phone. “Don’t keep things from me.”

“Eh… the farm’s not doing so good,” said Marion reluctantly. “I didn’t want to worry you about it.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “But you could worry the others?”

“She didn’t think a hothead like you could take it,” said Gwendoline.

“You’re a bigger hothead than I am, asshole,” he said. Gwendoline laughed.

He realized that she was distracting him and scowled. “Don’t lead me off-track.”

“It’s just going to take a lot of hard work and looking after the new management to get it back up to speed,” said Marion. “There’s really nothing you can do, Charles.”

D’Artagnan was silent.

“Don’t you even think about it, brat,” Gwendoline warned.

“What’s he--oh, no, Charles, you can’t move back, don’t be an idealist,” said Chiara. “It would take a full-time commitment--”

“You don’t think I have it in me?” said d’Artagnan hotly. “If that’s what it takes to save Papa’s farm--”

“It’s not where you belong, Charles,” said Lisabeth. “You have your own life in Paris. You’re doing so well there. Let us take care of this.”

D’Artagnan subsided, but he couldn’t help but whisper, “It’s Papa.”

“The farm isn’t Papa, no matter how he loved it,” said Aurelia sharply. “It’s his legacy, but it’s not everything he was. We can lose it and yet never lose him. Understand?”

D’Artagnan scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes. “Yes.”

Chiara said, “Charles, Papa would rather see you do what you love than try to fix the farm for his sake. He loved us better than anything on the farm.”

“Even the horses?” d’Artagnan said in reference to a long-standing joke.

Chiara laughed, a little wetly. “Maybe not the horses.”

“Never the horses,” said Marion. “Did you all hear about Roger? Monsieur Patard said he’s been eating all of his wife’s lavender. Now we know why Mama never planted any in her herb garden…”

* * * * *

“So now my father’s murderer might be set free, and my family’s farm is going under,” finished d’Artagnan. His audience of fellow police interns made sympathetic noises.

"Shit, that's tough," said one.

"Thanks," d'Artagnan said gloomily.

"If you ask me, prisoners shouldn't get special cases like that. They should appeal for parole halfway through their sentence, or not at all."

"I guess."

“That reminds me of this case that me ‘n Beaufort are working,” said the same intern. He addressed the wider circle now, obviously gravitating toward the more appreciative audience. “Well, he’s working it mostly, but I get to tag along to the court and see how the prosecutors are laying it out…”

D’Artagnan let the words fade into the background buzz of the police station. He looked away from the group.

They didn’t see the real problem, in d'Artagnan's opinion. All his life, the farm had been a fixture. It had been his family's home and their source of income. It had been his Papa's reason to rise every morning; even after his wife died, even when arthritis had frozen his joints. Papa had died surrounded by the fruit of his life's work, in the fields where he had toiled and sweated and bled. 

D’Artagnan couldn't imagine the farm failing. The fields growing unruly and unchecked, the horse barn rotting and crumbling away. Worse yet, the entirety being paved over and turned into a hotel or strip mall.

Zénaide tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, d'Artagnan, you coming to drinks?" She gestured to the other interns, who were switching out their blue jackets for warm coats at the end of shift.

D'artagnan waved at her vaguely, his attention on an officer access the room. "Yeah, maybe."

"Got a date with your moody musketeer?"

"Hmm?” Officer Chaise, a tall, narrow-faced woman in her fifties, was rising from her seat and switching off her desk light.

Zénaide shrugged. "If you're not too busy to hang out with us plebes, we'll be at the Fleur de Lis."

"Uh huh."

Officer Chaise headed across the room and d’Artagnan leapt after her.

He caught up with her on the sidewalk outside the building. She turned when he called her name.

"You're the writing analyst, right?" he asked.

"And you are...?"

"D'Artagnan. Er, intern." He extended a hand and she shook it. She had a harsh grip. "I was wondering if you could write something for me."

She arched a brow. "It's the first time I've been asked for my autograph."

"Not - sorry. I didn't mean that. If I gave you a sample of some writing, could you write something else in that handwriting?"

"It depends."

He thrust a piece of paper at her. "Is this enough?"

Chaise surveyed the spidery handwriting at the top of the page. She indicated the bottom, which held a typed quote. "This is what you want written?"

"Yes." D'Artagnan fidgeted. "Can you do it? I'll pay you," he added hastily.

Chaise fixed him with a stern gaze. "Forty up front," she said. "An extra twenty if you want it done on hectograph paper."

"Hecto - oh. I guess you know what I want it for."

"You're not the first person to ask me this," said Chaise. She folded the paper carefully and put it in her pocket. "I’ll get it done within the week."

D'artagnan pulled his wallet from his jacket and pulled a few crumpled bills from it after a short search. "Thank you so much."

"It's my pleasure." Chaise accepted the bills. She hesitated, and then said, "My condolences."

D’Artagnan startled. “I… you heard?”

Chaise shook her head. “There’s only two reasons I’ve seen why people need me to do the writing, instead of asking the writer themselves. Either it’s a famous person, or a dead one.”

D’Artagnan flinched involuntarily.

“Yeah,” he said. “Or a dead place.”

* * * * *

“You won’t eat?” Athos asked quietly.

D’Artagnan shook his head silently.

“Alright.” Athos surveyed d’Artagnan, who lay on Athos’ bed in the dark gloom of Athos’ room. He was curled into a tight ball with his face turned away from Athos.

Athos set the bowl of leftovers on the side table. He stripped out of his clothes and exchanged them for his pajamas. He kept an eye on d’Artagnan as he changed.

D’Artagnan had been unusually quiet all night. Athos knew that he was dwelling on the news that his sisters had given him: the state of his family’s farm and of his father’s killer. But d’Artagnan usually spoke out when he was upset. He wasn’t shy to tell Athos, at length, what or who was bothering him. D’Artagnan wasn’t the stoic type.

He wasn’t the type to settle on Athos’ bed and lay, unmoving but for small sighs, with his eyes open and fixed on the ceiling, for hours.

And yet that’s what he’d done that night. After murmuring a greeting to Athos, d’Artagnan had wandered into Athos’ bedroom and slumped onto bed. And had stayed there as the late evening sun had vanished and the air had turned colder. 

Athos hadn't found the will to tell d'Artagnan about the call he'd gotten from his ex-wife's lawyers, as he did every six months or so. They kept trying to haggle over the terms of the divorce that Athos had put behind him nearly six years ago. Up to this point, the calls had led to a twice-yearly indulgence of wine and regret that ended with a rude call back to the lawyers and half-slurred warnings of a lawsuit.

Today he'd come back in foul mood, ready to tell d'Artagnan all. Now he had something dearer to worry about than his own troubles. 

Athos settled into bed beside d’Artagnan. Unsure if his touch was welcome, he tucked d’Artagnan’s hair behind his ear. D’Artagnan shifted closer though, like a cat, he still didn’t turn to look at Athos.

Athos stroked d’Artagnan’s hair. He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss behind d’Artagnan’s ear, and then retreated again.

_I’m here if you want me._

Athos resumed petting d’Artagnan until his own eyes felt heavy and his hand slowed. The shape of d’Artagnan’s back became lost in the heavy darkness.

Finally, d’Artagnan took a breath as if to speak. Athos’ hand halted. D’Artagnan gasped again, a wet inhale, and turned blindly toward Athos.

“Darling,” murmured Athos. D’Artagnan shook his head, stopping Athos from reaching for him. He took a few deep breaths.

“I’m getting a tattoo,” d’Artagnan said. Athos could feel his tension from where he lay.

“Alright,” said Athos.

D’Artagnan looked at him, his eyes wet and gleaming in the dark. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

D’Artagnan’s breath shuddered. “I want you to come with me.”

“Alright.”

D’Artagnan looked back at the ceiling. He sighed, as if he was going to speak, and then fell silent.

Athos was nearly asleep again when he felt a tremor in the bed. He looked at d’Artagnan and saw his face screwed up, his eyes wide and shining in the low light. D’Artagnan shook again, containing body-rending sobs in the narrow cavern of his chest.

Athos crawled over the bed to take d’Artagnan in his arms. D’Artagnan pressed his face against Athos’ chest but otherwise made no sign that Athos was doing anything; he lay stiff as a board, his breaths shallow and uneven. His body still shook.

For a while there was nothing but the feeling of d’Artagnan and the shudders that tore through him like a feral animal, shaking his bones and tightening his shoulders.

Finally, d’Artagnan lay silent. Athos held him a while longer before letting go to look at him. D’Artagnan was asleep, his face lined with anxiety and sorrow. Athos kissed his forehead and held him close once more, trying to offer comfort even in sleep.

* * * * *

They entered the tattoo parlor with the jingle of the bells above the door. There was American classic rock music playing in the back; Athos could hear the faint sound of a Led Zeppelin guitar solo.

A woman wearing a miniskirt and with blue, natural hair emerged from the back. She saw d'Artagnan and came forward to welcome him with a kiss on the cheek and a grin.

She shook Athos’ hand. "You must be Athos," she said. "I’m Joan. D'Artagnan told me that his boyfriend was a handsome detective."

"I was right, wasn't I?" said d'Artagnan.

"I don’t get hot under the collar on the regular, but even I can admit you snagged a looker. So. You ready to get inked?"

D’Artagnan nodded resolutely. “Yes.”

“Come on back, then.”

Joan led them back to her private room. “Sit back on the chair and I’ll get your sketch,” she instructed. She withdrew a translucent piece of paper from a drawer and held it against d’Artagnan’s left ribs. “So, here?”

D’Artagnan looked down his body and nodded. “Just there.”

“Okay. And the design is alright? This is your last chance to change it.”

“No, it’s perfect.”

“This will take some pain tolerance, ‘kay? Don’t hesitate to tell me if you need to take a break.”

“I can stand it,” d’Artagnan said.

“Don’t think you can suffer through it ‘cause you’re a man,” Joan warned. “It’s more embarrassing for you if you faint.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Athos caught d’Artagnan’s hand and squeezed it. “D’Artagnan.”

He knew what d’Artagnan meant: that no pain could compare to the agony of missing his father, every second of every day. But Joan’s warnings were for a pain of a different sort.

D’Artagnan sighed. “Yes, I’ll tell you if I feel faint or nauseous,” he told Joan.

“Good. Athos, why don’t you pull up a chair.”

Athos did so while Joan readied her tools. He held out a hand and let d’Artagnan grab onto it. D’Artagnan looked at him with a strange, calm expression on his face -- as if he had made his decision to do something foolish.

“What are you thinking?” Athos murmured under the rustling of Joan setting out her ink and testing her gun.

“I’m thinking that you make me very happy.”

Athos couldn’t help but look at the tired bags under d’Artagnan’s eyes, and remember his restless tossing and turning all week. “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

“You are,” d’Artagnan reassured him. “It’s just that I’m also very sad, if that makes sense.”

Athos bent to kiss d’Artagnan, heedless of Joan.

“Will this help?” he asked.

“I think so.”

Joan rolled up to d’Artagnan’s other side in a swivel chair. She snapped on a pair of lime-green plastic gloves.

“You ready?” she asked d’Artagnan.

“Yes.” D’Artagnan squeezed Athos’ hand. “Wait, there’s just one thing. Could you start from the bottom up? Is that okay?”

Joan smiled. “For luck?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said, still smiling. “My family had a farm in Brittany for generations. Old superstitions tend to stick around.”

She poised the tattoo gun over d’Artagnan’s skin and glanced at him once more. “Ready?”

D’Artagnan breathed out long and slow, readying himself. “Yes.”

* * * * *

An hour later, Joan straightened and cracked her back with a sigh. D’Artagnan gentled his iron grip on Athos’ hand and Athos swallowed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s take a break,” Joan said. “That’s the outline done. Do you want to wait to do the words another day?”

“No,” said d’Artagnan instantly. “We can finish it today.”

“Alright, hold your horses,” said Joan. She laughed at her own joke. “Let me get us a drink. You, stay there. And you,” she pointed at Athos, “make sure he stays.” She left the room.

Athos carefully flexed his hand. D’Artagnan had squeezed it hard enough to give Athos pins and needles.

“Sorry,” said d’Artagnan, noticing. “I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” He ducked his chin and looked at the reddened skin on his ribs. “How does it look?”

Athos stood and circled around to see the tattoo properly. The skin was puffy, but the elegant outline of a horseshoe was clearly visible. “It looks good,” he said. Joan had taken care to copy the design of a real horseshoe, with proper shading. The only things missing were the holes where nails would be placed on the real thing; Joan would write the words d’Artagnan chosen in the empty space inside the horseshoe.

“What words have you chosen?” Athos asked, taking his seat again. 

D’Artagnan laughed shortly. “I dragged you along to this and I didn’t even tell you. It’s part of a quote from Fahrenheitit 451. ‘The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.’ I told you Papa was a big science fiction fan, right?”

Athos nodded.

“He liked Ray Bradbury,” d’Artagnan said. “He… It’s about letting go. Or not letting go. Like keeping it with me.”

“The farm?”

“And Papa. Aurelia said the farm wasn’t Papa, but it was, a little. He put so much of himself into it that I think he still lives there in the fields that he cultivated. And the house that he painted on his own. He planted our vegetable garden, too. He took such care with the tomatoes -- they kept being eaten by the rabbits.”

D’Artagnan clenched his eyes shut. Athos took his hand again and d’Artagnan gripped it, this time in a different kind of pain.

“I won’t believe he’s gone even after the garden have turned to mulch and the fields are turned with new soil that he’s never touched. It’s still his. He’s still there, and I’m -- I’m here.”

So that was what had been troubling d’Artagnan these past few days.

Athos remembered a time when he had wondered if his place in Paris, at the Agency, was correct; if he shouldn’t go back to his empty estate and live among the ghosts there.

D’Artagnan looked at Athos. "You know, when I found your card..." He looked at Athos, who nodded; Athos remembered the misplaced business card that d’Artagnan had taken as proof of Athos' guilt of Alexandre d’Artagnan’s murder. "When I saw it in the field, I thought, 'If no one else sees it, I'm meant to find it.' And I waited through all the questions and them taking Papa away, thinking about that card. And," he swallowed, "when I came back I thought, 'it's still here. I was meant to find this Athos.'"

Athos gripped d’Artagnan’s hand tighter. D’Artagnan’s smile was watery. "I was meant to find you. I just didn’t know why yet.”

Athos wondered vaguely if it there was such a thing as heartbreak from too much love; if a heart could stop with sheer, overflowing happiness.

“He’s still there,” d’Artagnan said. “But it’s easier to let go of the farm if it’s also -- here.” His hand hovered over the half-finished tattoo.

Athos couldn’t have spoken even if he’d found the words. All he could do was to kiss d’Artagnan, ignoring the tear that slipped down d’Artagnan’s cheek and onto Athos’ chin.

They only broke apart when Joan came back with juice boxes. Even then, Athos kept his hand in d’Artagnan’s, uncaring of the pain, as Joan inscribed the words “the gardener will be there a lifetime” on d’Artagnan’s skin, scrawled as if written by the gardener himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime."
> 
> -Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury


End file.
